Joy ride (part1): Stealing

Czechoslovakia

And then, one day, before the Russian Hydra branch hands him over to America for a sum much too high and with a manual detailing far too little, the Winter Soldier lines up a killing shot. The target is out below in a small village grasping hands as he moves through the crowd. The wind blows, and patches of snow swirl around in deceivingly chaotic patterns. It makes no difference to the Soldier. The bullet flies and he closes his eyes, mechanically starts to take his sniper rifle apart. Mind relaxing, slowing down. Job completed, he'd finally free think; wonder: what next? Return to extraction point, four day hike. Where am I even? -Czechoslovakia. And why? -Assasination. It was always an assasination.

Far-away screams of distress reach his ears with a turn of the wind; confirmation he doesn need. The Winter Soldier never checked if his shots hit home. Knew for a fact it would. His support team lacks faith in him though: the agent next to him, smirking from behind his binoculars. Three more, supposedly protecting the perimeter, but he has to wonder why feel compelled to divide their attention between their surroundings and him; the proverbial Comrade. Like the Soldier has ever been a danger to his allies. The Soldier nearly snorts with derision; he cannot remember ever letting down his team.

"Target down," and that is when that man with the binoculars makes a fatal mistake: a fatal flaw that breaks the spell. "Another threat to Hydra meets a far too easy end. Mission success. Let's pack up and head back, boys. It's a long road as is."

Someone on his side shifts, uncomfortable; apparently aware that this is something that should not have been said. Should not have been uttered out loud within hearing of the Soldier. And suddenly there's a crack in his mind: a tear line that must have been broken mended a thousand times. From somewhere below comes a nameless thing up for air; for freedom.

And the Winter Soldier stared, eyes wide, mind running little circles. Like a tornado. Tight, little panicking circles, until the fool with binoculars noticed, handguns cocking somewhere close behind. "what? "

And though he had no name for it; for the storm in his mind, it's Bucky. And when the Soldier deadpanned "Hail Hydra,"

...the whole four-man team had returned that with their own zealous "Hail Hydra," with a sigh; relaxing.

And Bucky's face had stretched thinly, in a failed smile, and he had finished packing up his weapon. And he felt more like a person than he had in forty years. Somewhere, something in the back of his mind something or someone kept running circles, but Bucky is the eye of the storm: hail Hydra. Hail Hydra. hailHydrahailfuckingfuckingHydra.. But not Bucky. Revived and summoned by those very words, he was completely calm. And so the scheming commenced.

Oh; they had him on a tight leash. He couldn't attack his teammates; just thinking about that made him sick. Couldn't injure himself. Couldn't disobey their orders. And that should have stuck out at him, before: And, how his comrades, his team, his friends kept a wary distance from him. It all made sense now, didn't it? Why the men kept their an eye more on him than on enemy territory; why his comrades only stared at him disapprovingly when he'd offered them a hand up a steep slope on the way here. Well, there'd be none of that on the way back. These men were not his friends; these men were not his comrades.

How Bucky had failed to notice any of this until now was unfathomable. Apparently the Winter Soldier had not been thinking; had apparently not thought much at all for a while. And that was the only reason this Hydra scum had managed to stay alive. While already making so many mistakes; mistakes in Europe's winter wilderness. Something he knew always led to a cold, early grave —for anyone but him, of course. His mind was like a smashed piece of pottery: it did not fit together well. But the shards told him he'd frozen in a blizzard before; whole platoons dying at his side. Whie he marched on come spring, untouched.